As promised, Malfoy appeared in the clearing just after sunset. Once again, he was dressed in an impractical outfit consisting of trousers and a button-down shirt—both black, again. As she watched, he settled himself just before the beginning of her wards, seemingly content to wait for the unicorn.
Hermione didn't know why she felt compelled to join him, but she did, and so she did, bringing with her a simple sandwich of cheese and butter. She sat down next to him, handing him the sandwich. "If you're hungry," she said as a way of offering. "It's not much."
He took the sandwich, briskly thanked her, and devoured it in three bites.
Hermione attempted not to fidget and kept quiet, even as she heard the unicorn—presumably—approaching. As the unicorn appeared in the clearing, Malfoy stood and strode towards the animal with purpose, and the unicorn immediately dropped its nose into his hand—a familiar gesture, as if they had known each other for a long time. Hermione watched as Malfoy scratched at the animal's snout, before finding what appeared to be a very pleasurable spot behind the unicorn's ears. Again, he spoke to the unicorn in low tones—asking permission, Hermione realized—and she remained still even as Malfoy withdrew the knife. She was surprised when he pressed the blade to the side of the unicorn's horn and pulled up, as if he were peeling a carrot. Her gaze shot to the unicorn, who did not appear to be in any pain.
After several minutes, Malfoy pocketed the horn he had gathered and returned to rubbing the unicorn's ears. In that moment, the wind picked up a bit and Hermione was able to hear Malfoy's parting words to the unicorn: "You can come back here anytime. I promise she won't hurt you."
Hermione catalogued her newest realization about Malfoy: he was good with animals. Malfoy. Death Eater. Spy for the Order. Good with animals.
Malfoy returned to the edge of the wards, where Hermione still sat. "Did you get what you needed?" she asked.
"No," he replied, sitting back down next to her. "I need quite a bit, but I can only take so much without hurting him."
"So he's going to come back here?" she asked tentatively.
"Yes."
The silence that ensued was awkward. Malfoy had gotten what he needed, but he still remained beside her, and she wasn't entirely sure why. She looked over to him, where he sat staring at the ground, his lower lip between his teeth, looking contemplative.
"What—?" Hermione began.
"Do you think I could have another sandwich?" Malfoy blurted out, suddenly looking embarrassed.
"What?" Hermione repeated.
"Nothing," he said hurriedly. "Never mind."
"No—of course. Come on." Hermione stood and wiped at the back of her leggings.
Malfoy stood slowly and followed her inside the tent, where she immediately began to assemble two more sandwiches as Malfoy hovered awkwardly near her kitchen table—which had been transfigured a produce crate she had found outside a Muggle grocery store.
"Sit," she ordered, placing the sandwiches on the table.
He sat, looking ridiculous on the tiny stool, and tentatively reached for one of the sandwiches.
Hermione sat across from him and watched as he ate, slower than before, but she could tell he was absolutely ravenous. He finished the sandwich, then politely thanked her as he crossed his fingers in his lap. She rolled her eyes. "Go on, they're both for you."
Malfoy's eyes flickered to hers briefly before he reached forward and grabbed the other sandwich. "Thank you," he repeated quietly once he had finished.
"You're welcome," she said, just as quietly.
He looked at her again. "I have something for you, actually." He reached into the pocket of his trousers and produced a Galleon, placing it on the table. "In case you need anything."
Hermione stared at the Galleon. "I thought you couldn't contact the Order directly?" she asked.
"I can't," Malfoy replied. "That—it's connected to mine." He looked embarrassed as he said it.
She took the coin in her hand, rolling it in her palm. "Thank you," she said quietly. "That's—thoughtful."
He shrugged, still looking uncomfortable. "You're part of the Order, whether they know you're alive or not. Living in the woods isn't as safe as you think, Granger. I'd hate to show up and find you murdered because you'd done something stupid."
"When will you be back?" Hermione asked as the cold metal of the Galleon warmed against her hand.
"Three days. That should be enough for his horn to grow back fully."
Hermione nodded. "Do you know when you'll hear from the Order again?"
"It will be at least a month," Malfoy replied.
"Oh," she said, once again disappointed.
"Granger, I—" he began, before stopping himself.
"What?" Hermione asked, desperately wanting to hear what he had to say.
He sighed. "If I could get in touch with the Order for you, I would. But I can't—and I'm sorry."
"No—it's okay. It's not your fault—"
"I should go," he interrupted. "Thank you for the sandwiches. I'll see you in three days."
Malfoy stepped out of the tent, and promptly apparated away.
Hermione supposed she really was very lonely, because she spent the next three days anticipating Malfoy's return.
Glamoured and disillusioned, she snuck off to a little grocer near the forest, picking up more bread, cheese, lunch meat, and even some eggs. She always felt bad stealing, but she didn't dare visit her Muggle or Gringott's account.
At night, she laid in her bed, turning the Galleon in her palm, wondering why Malfoy had given it to her in the first place. Malfoy: Death Eater. Spy. Good with animals. He'd given her a coin so she could contact him.
Contact him for what, she hadn't quite figured out.
Her thoughts were so preoccupied by Malfoy that her beaded bag full of research remained, unused and untouched, next to her bed. Instead, she busied herself writing down all the questions she had for him.
Why did you become a Death Eater?
Why did you become a spy?
Why did you choose one side of the War and then immediately choose another?
Ultimately, that was her question.
What changed?
Was it you?
When Malfoy appeared in the clearing, he seemed unsurprised to see her waiting for him in the shade of her favorite tree. As he came closer, Hermione stood and pulled a parchment from the pocket of her jumper and unfurled it. "I have some questions for you," she announced unceremoniously
"Oh, good. She has a list," Malfoy replied sarcastically, accompanied by a predictable roll of his eyes. Hermione met Malfoy's eyes and he quirked a brow expectantly before crossing his arms over his chest. "Well, get on with it, Granger."
Truthfully, she didn't even need the list. She knew what she wanted to ask. "Why did you become a Death Eater?" Hermione blurted, immediately cursing herself for her own brashness.
Malfoy's face darkened, his eyes narrowed, and initially, he did not speak. After several moments of silence, he said, quietly: "Because I had to."
Hermione ground her jaw in frustration. That, decidedly, was not an answer. She continued, "Well, why did you become a spy?"
His eyes narrowed further. "Because I had to," Malfoy repeated.
Unhelpful wanker.
"I'm trying to understand you," Hermione said earnestly, wanting him to know why she wanted to know, even if she didn't fully understand the implications of why that was important. "Because if you're with the Order, I want to trust you. I'm—I'm trying to—" she broke off. "But I don't know how."
Malfoy's features softened somewhat, though his initial irritation did not fully disappear. He let out a heavy sigh and dropped his arms, looking completely and utterly exhausted as he did so. "Fine," he finally said quietly. "I suppose that's only fair."
Hermione sat back down beneath, gesturing for Malfoy to take a seat next to her. He obliged, sitting just a touch too close to her—close enough that she could smell him, and Merlin, he smelled nice—like mahogany and teakwood, woody and masculine, and—
Merlin, she really was lonely, wasn't she?
"I became a Death Eater because I had to," Malfoy said again, and even before Hermione could open her mouth in protest, he spoke again, "I never had a choice in it, Granger. I know you can and will attempt to argue that I had a choice, but at the end of the day, I really did not."
Hermione resisted her immediate urge to insist that yes, he had had a choice, and instead remained quiet.
"My father was in Azkaban, and—well, he had failed his mission, and He needed a replacement," Malfoy's voice drifted off, and his eyes glazed over as he looked up at the tree leaves. "Well, when He makes a decision, He makes a decision," he finished lamely, shrugging his shoulders as his gaze drifted down to his lap.
"That's," Hermione began, fiddling with her fingers, "not a very good answer."
"Well, it's the answer, Granger," Malfoy snapped.
"Passive acceptance. Very noble," Hermione replied.
Malfoy rose to his feet so quickly, Hermione barely saw him move. "I made the choice I could live with the most," he shot back.
"Murdering Dumbledore was what you thought you could live with?" Hermione scoffed.
Malfoy had turned bright scarlet and his grey eyes glinted dangerously. "I chose to save my Mother."
Hermione flinched, and her heart twisted. Her damnable brain conjured images of her own parents, safe and obliviated in Australia. That had been her only choice. Suddenly, she understood better than he knew. Perhaps, Malfoy had made his only choice as well. She stood, too, facing him. "Your mother?" she asked gently.
Malfoy did not look at her, but he nodded tensely.
She took several steps towards him—she could smell him again—and almost reached for him before thinking better of it and dropping her hand. "Where are your parents?"
"Dead," he replied dully.
She flinched again. "Both of them?"
He nodded.
"Oh, Malfoy, I'm so—"
"Fuck off, Granger," Malfoy interrupted. "I don't want your pity."
"I don't—I'm not—"
"He killed them, you know," Malfoy continued, as if he hadn't heard her. "He murdered my father, and my mother just wasted away without him. In my eyes, He murdered her, too." His eyes flashed, a darker silver than before. He still wouldn't meet her eyes.
She didn't know why she said it. She didn't know why she needed to say it. But she did, so she did: "I lost my parents, too."
Malfoy's gaze finally snapped to hers. "What?"
Now it was her turn to look away. "I obliviated them. Just before the War. I sent them away to—live in Australia."
"Granger, I—"
Hermione smiled bitterly. "I don't want your pity either, Malfoy."
Out of her peripheral vision, she could see that he was staring at her. Finally, he spoke, "I became a spy because Dumbledore and Snape promised that they could keep my mother safe—that they could get her out—"
"Snape?" Hermione interrupted.
Malfoy merely nodded. "He was a spy for the Order—had been for a long time," he continued, as if he hadn't just revealed something huge. "And, well, obviously they're all dead now. So clearly that didn't quite work out." He snorted. "So here I am, Granger. Any more questions?"
"Would you like something to eat?" she asked quietly.
"Yes," Malfoy answered almost instantly.
Hermione could barely suppress her grin before walking back towards her tent and making two turkey sandwiches for him. When she returned, Malfoy was back to sitting beneath the tree, twiddling thoughtfully with a twig. He looked up at her as she approached and she handed him the sandwiches.
Again, he seemed ravenous.
Hermione settled down next to him and asked her next question—one that hadn't been on her list, "Why are you so hungry every time I see you?"
"If you can believe it," Malfoy answered snidely between bites of sandwich, "my army is not well fed."
Hermione dropped her head down onto her knees and watched him eat. "I suppose that's bound to happen when you follow someone who's not entirely human."
If that offended him, Malfoy certainly didn't show it. He simply nodded and continued to eat. Afterwards, they sat in silence for a long time, and where it should have been uncomfortable, Hermione found that it simply wasn't. There was something about Malfoy that she couldn't quite put her finger on, an ease that she felt around him that she couldn't quite understand. She didn't enjoy his company—not really—but she also found that she didn't exactly mind it. She had wanted to ask what had changed, and had it been him? It was then that Hermione knew the answer to the question she hadn't even asked: an unequivocal, undeniable yes.
Hermione hadn't realized she'd been staring—hadn't meant to—and only realized it as she watched Malfoy arch a perfectly manicured brow at her. "Yes, Granger?" he asked, the beginning of a smirk growing on his lips.
Immediately, she looked away, a flush creeping up her neck. "Nothing," she said. "I was just thinking."
"A foregone conclusion," Malfoy replied in a slightly cajoling tone. His smirk had grown wider, but less cruel than she had ever remembered.
Rather, she found it made him look rather attractive.
Merlin.
"Satisfied that I am not going to attempt to murder you?" he asked, smirk still in place.
Hermione found she couldn't even force herself to look at him. "Yes," she replied primly.
Malfoy laughed—a real laugh. His head tilted back, his blonde hair falling over his forehead. Hermione wasn't sure she'd ever really seen him laugh before, and before she could even stop her traitorous thoughts in their tracks, she watched him laugh, loving the sound, wanting to hear it again. The look on his face was that of joy, of humor, and it was another thing she had never seen from Malfoy before, and she found it—well, she found it beautiful—
Hermione knew she was staring now, and she couldn't find it in herself to care.
What she realized, belatedly, was that he was also staring at her.
Malfoy seemed to realize this at precisely the same time as she did, because he instantly looked away from her, and she could see just the faintest flush of pink beneath his collar. He cleared his throat and changed the subject, "The sun's started to set. We should see the unicorn soon."
Hermione nodded, feeling the heat of her own blushing. "Yes," she agreed, and her voice sounded strange to her own ears.
The unicorn, perhaps sensing the odd tension between them, did not appear.
The forest grew darker, and colder, with a strong breeze that chilled Hermione straight down to the bone. She crossed her arms over herself, pulling her jumper tighter across her frame. Beside her, she heard Malfoy shift, and she saw him pull a small silver flask out of his cloak pocket. He handed it to her. "It will help keep you warm," he said, as a way of offering.
Hermione did not reach for the flask. "I can just cast a warming charm," she replied, grabbing her wand from where it sat beside her on the ground.
Malfoy merely shrugged and twisted the cap open, taking a long swallow. "Suit yourself. Warming charms work but this will keep you warm from the inside out." He smirked again.
She recognized the smirk for what it was—a challenge. Narrowing her eyes, Hermione snatched the flask from Malfoy's fingers and took a swig. It had been years since she'd had a drink, and her throat and nose burned with alcohol. Hermione forced herself to swallow the liquid and she sputtered, coughing, as she did so.
Malfoy was laughing again. Head thrown back, eyes closed, his knees drawn up to his chest as he laughed at her. Hermione decidedly liked Malfoy's laugh less when it was directed at her—but as she watched him, she realized it wasn't a laugh meant to hurt or to wound, but a laugh of genuine amusement. Hermione swallowed, the burn of the alcohol still present, but as it warmed her insides, she began to laugh, too. "It's been a long time since I've had a drink," she admitted, giggling—feeling giddy with alcohol and amusement.
"You don't say," Malfoy replied, taking the flask back from her and taking another swig.
Hermione shrugged. "I think the last time was after the Yule Ball," she said, suddenly feeling chatty. "I have to forage or steal most of my food. Alcohol is a luxury I cannot afford."
Malfoy paused, the flask poised against his lips. He lowered it. "Are you telling me," he began, seemingly in disbelief, "that my dinner was stolen?"
Hermione huffed and jutted out her chin in defiance. "It was," she said simply.
"Ah, so you're telling me that the ineffable Hermione Granger, the moral compass of the Golden Trio, is actually a little thief?" Malfoy teased, smirking at her.
It was the alcohol that made her stomach flip, she was certain.
She sniffed indignantly. "I'll have you know I'm not as innocent as you believe me to be."
Malfoy's smirk widened, morphing into something predatory, something dangerous-looking. He took another swig from his flask before leaning back against the tree. "Interesting," was all he said.
Hermione was not sure what to make of his tone. She grabbed the flask from his hands, taking another swig. She was beginning to feel fuzzy, but she certainly was warm. She leaned back against the tree, her jumper brushing his cloak briefly as she did so. "Can I ask you a question?" she said after a moment.
Malfoy snorted. "You've already asked me several, Granger. You're asking permission now?"
"This wasn't on my original list," Hermione replied defensively.
Malfoy chuckled. "Go on then, Granger."
"What is it that you do?" she asked, knowing how vague she sounded even as she spoke.
He turned to look at her, his grey eyes intent. "I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific."
Hermione made a vague jester, trying to communicate her question without truly knowing it herself. "I mean—what is that you do? For Him…for the Order?"
Immediately, Malfoy tensed, then sighed. "I'm an interrogator," he replied after a moment. "For Him."
"An interrogator?" Hermione asked.
Malfoy nodded. "I'm—well, I'm a Legilimens," he said quietly. "And an Occlumens, too, but the Legilimency is what makes me valuable to Him." Malfoy picked absently at a nonexistent thread on his trousers. "I suppose the Occlumency is what makes me valuable to the Order." He laughed bitterly. "I deal in trading secrets, Granger."
"So you're an interrogator for Him—I assume you pass what you learn to the Order?"
He nodded again. "Essentially. If it's relevant."
"But this is—this is what doesn't make sense to me—why can't you contact them directly, in that case?" Hermione asked, feeling confused.
His fingers tensed against the fabric of his trousers. "They don't trust me. The Order. Without Dumbledore, without Snape—not that they ever trusted him anyway—there is no one to verify my intent." He shrugged, as though this fact didn't bother him, though Hermione could tell that it very much did. "I tell them what I know, and in exchange, they've promised not to throw me in Azkaban when this is all over."
"Do you believe them?" she asked quietly.
Malfoy was silent for several seconds. "No," he replied finally. "But I'm hopeful. At least they didn't kill my family." Another long pause. "Can I ask you something?"
"Yes," Hermione breathed.
He picked at his trousers once more, this time with more deliberation, digging his nails forcefully into the fabric. "Is it reversible?" he asked. "The obliviation, I mean."
"I don't know," she answered truthfully. "It's been so long now—"
Malfoy nodded, his gaze fixed on the fingernail digging into his trousers, as if he had already come to the same conclusion that she had.
Was it reversible? Once upon time, maybe. Now? She didn't know.
But she hoped. Like him, she hoped.
Suddenly—or perhaps not so suddenly—Hermione felt sad. She fiddled with the flask in her hands before taking a large gulp from it. Now feeling slightly drunk, Hermione placed the flask on the ground in front of her and leaned back against the tree, closing her eyes.
Beside her, Malfoy shifted. Hermione heard him take another sip from the flask before he leaned against the tree next to her.
She wasn't sure if it was the loneliness or the alcohol—or a combination of both—that made her want to talk, but she surprised herself when she spoke again: "They're happy, I think," Hermione said quietly, then she laughed, now feeling quite drunk. "Monica and Wendell Wilkins. That's what I named them."
"Wendell is a silly name," Malfoy replied, somewhat more seriously than Hermione would have expected with such a statement.
In a different time, with a different Malfoy, the comment would have hurt, it would have incapacitated her heart and her lungs, leaving her completely without breath. But here, in this time, with this Malfoy, Hermione merely laughed. "It is," she agreed, opening her eyes once more to look at Malfoy.
His eyes were still open, and he was looking directly at her. "So is Hermione," he continued, his voice quieter and softer.
Hermione's stomach flipped again, and she couldn't entirely blame it on the alcohol this time. She wasn't certain she'd ever heard Malfoy use her first name in the entirety of the time he had known her, and Hermione found that she quite liked the way her name sounded on his perfectly shaped lips—
Oh, she had definitely had too much to drink.
Hermione sat up quickly, in an attempt to escape his gaze, and pulled her knees into her chest. "Most people think I'm named after Greek mythology, or after a character in Shakespeare," she said quietly, smiling into her knees. "And, truthfully, I've never corrected anyone's assumption."
"I know the mythology, and I believe I've heard of Shakespeare before, though I'm not entirely familiar," Malfoy replied. "So what is that you're actually named after?"
Malfoy was beside her again, still sitting a touch too close.
Hermione felt her smile widen. "A David Bowie song." She laughed again, finding the admission truly silly.
Malfoy, clearly confused, asked, "Who is David Bowie?"
"A rather eccentric musician. My mother was a fan." Hermione shrugged.. "Everyone always assumed that because I'm bookish, my parents were as well. I don't think I ever saw my mother pick up a book that didn't involve teeth." She laughed bitterly.
"You miss them," Malfoy concluded.
She snuck a glance at him, and his silver eyes were still intent on her. "Don't you?" she asked simply.
"Yes," Malfoy agreed, suddenly looking very sad.
He was lonely, too, Hermione realized. Perhaps even lonelier than she was. She wasn't sure why, but the realization hurt.
Malfoy: Death Eater. Spy. Good with animals. He'd given her a coin so she could contact him. Lonely.
There was a flush slowly crawling up Malfoy's neck, and he immediately averted his eyes and cleared his throat. "Well, I suppose the unicorn will not be making an appearance tonight. I should be going," he said crisply. His demeanor had shifted entirely, as if he had realized he had revealed something—a part of him—inadvertently to Hermione. He had seemed relaxed, easy, even. Now he just appeared uncomfortable. He rose quickly. "Thanks for dinner, Granger," he said, still not looking at her. "Even if you did steal it."
He pulled his wand out from where it had been tucked in the pocket of his trousers and made to apparate.
Hermione, realizing that she had one more question she needed to ask him, shot to her own feet and reached out to him. "Wait!" she cried.
This seemed to surprise Malfoy, and he paused his wand movements. Briefly, an expression that Hermione could only attribute to relief graced his features, the cause of which Hermione did not wholly understand, before he pushed it away. He stared at her expectantly.
Hermione bit her lip, feeling silly. "When will you be back?" she asked quietly.
He smirked, but it didn't feel as cold as it could have. "Tomorrow, Granger. Obviously. I still need that unicorn horn."
She nodded and looked away. "Good," she said. "Good. Well, goodnight, Malfoy."
"Goodnight, Granger."